


Be Safe

by ca_hawkins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Story: His Last Bow, This was written before the Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_hawkins/pseuds/ca_hawkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hadn't seen Sherlock in a long time. He has questions about Sherlock's time away and it is eating him alive. Now he is determined to get the answers that he needs. What would happen when he finally finds out the answers to his questions are not what he expected?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic was written before "The Abominable Bride" was aired... so it may seem a bit different from the story. Also, I do not own these characters...

John hasn't seen him ever since the plane incident. He has never seen Sherlock so relieved in his entire life. ' _Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong,_ ' Sherlock's voice comes back at the back of his head.

On the contrary to popular belief, John is not an idiot. If you compare him to Sherlock, he's both the smart and the idiot one since Sherlock is both the stupidest and most brilliant person he has ever met.

If John would deduce correctly, he'd say that Sherlock looked as if he survived something. But what is it? There's a voice at the back of his head that he doesn't want to listen to.

' _Death,_ ' the voice says.

' _Oh some undercover work in Eastern Europe._ '  
' _For how long?_ '  
' _Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong._ '  
' _And then what?_ '  
' _Who knows?_ '

John knows there is something off about what and how Sherlock answered and delivered his answer. Sherlock answered the same way he talked before he jumped off that rooftop. ' _Stop thinking about that! It's over! He's alive! Move on!_ ' Sherlock sounded distressed even then. But this time, it looked more... real... because he saw it up close.

Was he as distressed on top of that rooftop as he was before he went in that plane? He seemed... scared, even... more than his fear when they were in Baskerville.

' _Body's betraying me,_ ' Sherlock had said.

Sherlock's voice reenters his head. ' _...since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again..._ '

Those words. The combination of those seven words seems odd. Six months, Mycroft had estimated. An undercover work in Eastern Europe. Isn't that kind of what he did in the last two years of his disappearance? Undercover work to dismantle Moriarty's web?

Somehow, the parallel between the fall from Bart's Hospital and his exile seem too alike. Sherlock's distress. John being left behind. Sherlock leaving. An undercover work.

' _Death..._ ' a whisper echoes in his head.

No. No. Anything but that. But... Undercover work. Distressed. Unlikely to meet again. Relief getting out of that plane.

' _He was going to die in six months... time estimated by Mycroft,_ ' the voice at the back of his head says.

John shakes his head in disbelief. That cannot be right. That must not be right. Why would Sherlock even go inside that plane? Why would he submit to such fate? He should have just ran off or something.

' _Unless he was willing to?_ '

' _SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!_ ' he mentally yells.

He hasn't seen Sherlock since. Is he working on the possibility of Moriarty's return? Or is he working on why Moriarty's face had flashed to every television in the country? Is he resting? Is he in danger? Is he running around London, chasing some criminals, like he used to? Is he still imprisoned? Is he on house arrest? Is he staying with Mycroft?

So many questions... and there is only one possible way of getting the answers to these thoughts.

He checks the time. Eight o'clock. He, then, grabs his coat, tells Mary that he will be gone for a while, leaves the house, and heads on to Baker Street.

He  _will_ get answers this time.

* * *

John walks through the familiar street. How he misses this place. This has been his home for eighteen months before Sherlock decided to jump-  _stop thinking about it_. He sees the door to 221B and walks over there, staring at the door to his old home. A weight on his chest presses down on him at the thought that he is merely a visitor rather than the one living here. It doesn't seem right.

Grabbing his key of 221B from his pockets, he opens the door slowly. Quietly, he walks up the stairs to the sitting room and is careful not to step on the creaky one. Being an army doctor and creeping up on criminals for a few years helped him be light on his feet.

Nearing the door, he hears Mrs Hudson's voice, "Now, you just rest, dear, I'll bring you a cuppa."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he hears Sherlock's voice. And if he was suspicious before, now, he's just concerned. Sherlock sounded tired, exhausted... defeated.

He walks in the room and sees Sherlock curled up on his armchair. It amazes how Sherlock, being tall and all, can fold himself to fit on his small armchair.

"Oh, you again," Sherlock mutters under his breath. "Didn't I just tell you to leave me alone?"

"Sherlock?" John asks, confused. Because no, Sherlock did not tell him anything. They did not talk since that goodbye on the tarmac. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock raises his head. "Wait, you're you?" he asks and John looks at him, even more confused. "John?" John can see the bags under his eyes most probably from lack of sleep. He seems paler than before... and physically weaker.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asks Sherlock.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock sits up, sensing that something is wrong for John to come unannounced. "What happened? Why are you here? Tell me. Did someone target you?"

"What?" John asks. "No. I'm fine, Sherl, but I need you to answer something from me first. When. was. the. last. time. you. slept?" he stresses every word for emphasis.

"A few hours ago," Sherlock answers.

"You don't look like it."

"It wasn't a long sleep," Sherlock answers distractingly as he deduces why John is here. "Why are you here?" he asks defeatedly, too tired to deduce anything.

"Nothing. Like I said, I just want to see if you're okay."

"Im fine," Sherlock answers casually, shrugging.

"Are you?" John presses.

"Yes."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you believe that I am not fine... even if I am."

Sherlock stands up as he finishes his sentence. John quickly steps towards Sherlock when he noticed his swaying the moment he tried to stand up but was stopped by a hand from Sherlock himself.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson scolds as she comes back holding a tray with tea and biscuits. "I told you to relax. Sit down," she commands, placing the tray on the table and then placing her hands on Sherlock's shoulders and tries to push him down to his armchair once more.

When he is seated, Sherlock places his hands on Mrs Hudson's and gives her a warm smile. John would have believed then that nothing is wrong, but the bags under Sherlock's eyes, his swaying, his defeated posture, and his tired old eyes say otherwise.

"Mrs Hudson, I just want to stand by the window. You know how the London streets calm me down. There's no need to fuss."

"Oh, don't give me that, dear," Mrs Hudson scolds once more. John sees Sherlock smile that small smile of his that is only reserved for Mrs Hudson.

"Just go and continue your morning routines or whatever," Sherlock tells her in an annoyed tone, masking his gratitude.

"That won't stop me, though." Mrs Hudson pats Sherlock on the shoulder and goes downstairs before glancing at John and giving him a small look, leaving John and Sherlock alone together.

"Are you sick?" John asks Sherlock, sitting down on the armchair in front of the detective.

"No," Sherlock answers. " _Really_ , John. There is absolutely nothing wrong. I don't know what's making you all..." he gestures to John. "...that."

"Concerned?" John suggests. He sighs. "I am a doctor, Sherlock. You can't fool me, so don't even try."

"I can't fool you because I _am_ not fooling you." Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up quickly before falling down on the couch to lie down.

"Yes, right..." John sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. "How are you?"

"Dear lord," Sherlock complains, placing his own hands on his face to rub them. "Small talk. How wonderful!"

John turns on his seat to look at Sherlock. "Look, Sherlock. I'm just trying to talk to you!"

"Then talk! Don't use delaying tactics!" Sherlock snaps.

"How can I talk and ask you anything if you keep changing the topic?"

Sherlock turns his head to look at him. "I have been answering your questions honestly!"

"Then why do you look sick if you are not?!"

"Because I _am_ sick!" Sherlock snaps.

"And here we are," John says humourlessly with a smile. "Great. Just brilliant." He leans on his armchair towards Sherlock. "You just told me you weren't sick, and now you say you are? I thought you've been _answering my questions honestly_? Hmm?"

"I am! You asked about my physical state, and I tell you that I am not sick. What I am saying is that I _look_ sick because I _am_ sick. Sick of  _this_!"

John leans back on his chair, surprised at Sherlock's outburst. ' _Did Sherlock just openly admit that he is currently sick of something? Odd_ ' 

"Sick of what?" he asks softly.

"You."

"But I barely even see you!" John defends himself. ' _How can he be sick of me when I am not even here to annoy him or pester around him?_ '

"Exactly," Sherlock answers, appearing disconsolate.

"What?"

John feels his brain had just stopped, was cut out from his head, thrown to the ground, nailed onto the floor, burned, and stomped on multiple times.

"Sherlock?"

The detective sits up from the couch. "I'm sick of you being here _less_ and  _less_ , and when you  _do_ arrive, you do  _that_." He gestures to John again. " _Small talk_ ," he hisses. "Asking ridiculous questions 'how are you' and such. Promising to keep in touch because we barely see each other any more. Isn't that what people do to their friends when they reunite in school reunions? Colleagues. Acquaintances. Those are the people who promise to keep in touch with another. I do not wish to be categorised with them. That would insult me," Sherlock continues, monotonously.

"I'm not insulting you, Sherlock."

"Not on your own accord," he replies.

"So... what now?" John asks, standing up from frustration. "What should I do, hmm?" He starts pacing around the room. "Come back to Baker Street? _Move back in_? Leave my life behind? Jump back to yours? Sherlock, remember, you left me first."

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock asks.

"Want what?"

"Move back in?"

"What? No!" John blinks a few times. Sherlock is staring directly at him, not an emotion on his face. "Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know."

"You _do_ know. You just don't want to say it."

"I have a new life now. I have Mary, and a child on the way."

Sherlock sighs. "I know."

John sits back down once more. "What happened to you?" he asks.

Sherlock gives him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"When you were playing hide-and-seek, what happened? You never told me what happened."

"You never asked," Sherlock replies, and John feels like a string broke inside of him. Guilt, that's what he is feeling.

"I'm asking _now_."

"Like I said, I dismantled Moriarty's web."

"Is that it?" Sherlock nods. "No, it isn't. Sherlock... I want to know what happened? Give me the details. Did something bad happen? Did you meet people? Did Mycroft help? How did you capture those who are needed to be captured? What _happened_?"

The gears of Sherlock's mind is reeling. John can practically see it moving through his eyes. Sherlock's hesitating, he can tell.

"Right... Right..." Sherlock says, distractingly. "Let's see... I faked my death... Remember those snipers I told you about? The ones you carelessly wrote in your blog when I returned?" John remembers, indeed. "Mycroft took care of them. All three of them. Shame, I admit." John looks at him but Sherlock just keeps on staring at the ceiling. "I would have wanted to... talk to them."

A shiver runs through John's spine at the implied meaning. "What else?"

"Hmm... I went around the world. I admit I had a few cases in other parts of the world while I was hunting Moriarty's men..." Sherlock adds thoughtfully. "Of course, people don't seem to recognise me and I intend not to be recognised. I'll be the consulting detective, like before... and not the Reichenbach Hero. The cases were boring, anyway... Basically, I'd find parts of Moriarty's web, and _take care_ of them. It was bitter work. All the people... all the commotion... the threats..."

Sherlock's breath hitches but John doesn't notice.. He is too busy taking in what Sherlock is saying. Trying to comprehend what Sherlock must have gone through.

"There would be times that the string of his web would be too loose... A click of the finger and it's gone. But some are strings made of steel. Hard to break. Hard to infiltrate. That's the most challenging of all..."

"Why didn't you just let me help you?" John asks. "I could've helped. I was a soldier, you know."

Sherlock's eyes roam around the room, as if searching what is appropriate to say. 

"It wasn't an option," Sherlock replies, turning away.

"And why on earth not?"

Sherlock sighs. "I couldn't."

"Couldn't _what_?! Sherlock, stop being a cryptic dick and just say what you have to say! I don't know all the answers and I need them."

"I couldn't drag you into all that."

"Why not?" he asks, frustrated.

"You deserve a life, John. Not my life. You need to get your own." 

"Oh, and you're the expert on what I do and do not deserve now, hmm? I _grieved_ , Sherlock."

"I know."

"And yet you still didn't bother to come back even when you knew."

"I didn't know, but I _know_."

"Damn these cryptic messages again."

"I _didn't know_ that you would grieve my death, John. I told you I was a fake. I assumed you would have left it at that, knowing that my intelligence is based on lies. But I know it now... hopefully..."

"And you actually believe that telling me that your intellect is a fake, that I would believe you and leave?" John asks. Sherlock nods in answer. "Sherlock, I became your friend, and I _chose_ you to be  _my_ friend, not because of your intelligence. You're more than just that, you idiot. You're human, and you're a good man. A man anyone would've been honoured to be friends with."

"I don't understand."

"Sherlock! Your intelligence is not the only thing that gives you worth. It is merely a part of it. A small part of it. I meant it before, you are the best person I could have ever hoped for for a friend. And best could mean anything, but I mean it in every sense of the word." Sherlock looks up at him, frozen in shock. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. "You say such moving words, John," and John understands that this is Sherlock's version of thank-you.

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" John asks and Sherlock looks at me. "Okay, I confess that I talked with Mrs Hudson for a while now... through the phone."

"Memories," Sherlock answers quietly.

"Sorry, what?" he asks since he wasn't able to hear Sherlock's quiet voice.

"I said, 'memories'," he answers louder.

"Nightmares?" John asks him. Sherlock winces at the word.

"...something of the sorts."

"Talk to me, Sherl."

"It's... It's, er..." Sherlock clears his throat. "Dismantling Moriarty's web proved to be a challenge. Unsurprisingly, I've been captured several times. I got treated the way they think I deserved." Sherlock swallows. "Usually, they use their fists, and hit me at parts of my torso that would easily numb my arms and such. It would seem that they have a knowledge of Human Anatomy and use it for their own advantage. Quite impressive, I admit. You should have met Sebastian Moran." He pauses. "No. Scratch that, you should not meet Sebastian Moran... ever," Sherlock says the last word angrily. "The last piece of Moriarty's web was difficult. I was finished but I still got captured after all that. They didn't do anything that was worse than I have already experienced but the one that bothered me the most about the last string of the web is how long I got to stay there. Mycroft was needed to intervene and yet I was still the one who needed to get myself out. Mycroft thinks he got me out. Pompous git."

"What did Moran do to you?" 

John feels like he cannot breathe. His fists clench and unclench.

"Just... You know..." He shrugs as if talking about the weather. "Failed attempts at manipulation." Sherlock rolls his eyes at the last part. "Punches, kicks, electrical charges, burning, force-feeding, knives, forced to witness things..."

John can clearly see that Sherlock is getting more and more distressed the more he enumerates whatever it is that he has been submitted to at his time away. He also realised that he has had a hard time breathing. John quickly calms himself and stands up and sits in front of Sherlock.

"Okay... Okay, Sherlock..." He puts a hand on Sherlock's forehead. He's so cold, sweaty, and pale. "You're safe now, Sherlock."

"Don't," Sherlock snaps, gently removing John's hand from his forehead. "No, no, no, don't do that..."

"Why not?"

"Doctoring me won't work. I'm fine... Just... troubled..."

"Troubled?" John laughs in disbelief. "You need my help."

"No."

"Sherlock. You need my help."

"Why?"

"Because you need it."

"You're not making any sense."

"I am making _perfect_ sense. You're just too stubborn to see it. Do the maths, Sherlock. You're _bothered_ and you want to get rid of this  _annoying_ part of yourself that just won't shut up. The one that constantly whispers at the back of your head, slowly pushing you to insanity, am I correct? And... what, you've been trying to get rid of it ever since you returned from the war? t-the dismantling, I mean."

Sherlock, then, understood that John  _does_ understand what he has gone through. John has been through war. He has gone to Afghanistan and was invalided back here after getting shot in the shoulder.

"Obviously, doing it by yourself isn't working, right?" John continues. "You need help, and getting help from me is the best option here. Unless you want another doctor to help you." Sherlock gives John a horrified look. "Exactly."

"I'm glad you're safe," Sherlock quietly whispers.

"I'm always safe, and I'm here to keep _you_ safe."

Sherlock's eyes are dropping. "Friends protect people," Sherlock says under his breath.

John doesn't know why, but Sherlock's words left him feel awful instead of warm.

* * *

 

Sherlock stirs and opens his eyes. No nightmares. He checks his phone. Seven hours of sleep. That's good. John looks at Sherlock as he stares back.

"Morning," John greets.

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

"Eat." John gesture to the meal Mrs Hudson made for him a few minutes ago. Sherlock grimaces at the thought of food which was not unnoticed by John. "You need to eat."

Sherlock sighs but complies. He sits up slowly to look at the meal on the table. Thankfully, he had not had a good case except for the case with Moriarty's return.

"There's something in your mind," Sherlock deduces as he slowly moves to eat.

"Six months," John simply answers. Sherlock's hand which is holding a fork and was midway to his mouth freezes at the implication of the two words. "What was the six months for? I've been thinking about that a lot."

"Don't think about it."

"Sherlock."

"My exile is cancelled anyway. It's in the past. It's over. It's done. I did not have to go through that undercover work. There's no need to think about it."

"Sherlock, please."

He sighs. "Fatality."

"Whose fatality?"

"Mine," Sherlock whispers.

John sighs in defeat. Sherlock told the truth. He asked and he finally said the truth. Even though he had suspected it, the reality of the truth hits him full force and he can't help but want to vomit all over the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me when you were going to that plane?" John asks tearily but managed to compose himself. He remembers feeling this way when he found out that Mary was an assassin. Best not think about that for a while.

"It's better when you did not know about that particular information."

"Why?"

"I already saw you grieve. I don't want that to happen again."

"Brilliant," John whispers sadly. "Just brilliant." His voice starts to break.

"John, I-"

"No, Sherlock. This... This is just..."

"I'm sorry."

John looks up to see Sherlock looking down at his hands. Sherlock's jaws are clenched. He looks like the time in that Tube Station - their first case after the hiatus. ' _Oh god, was he actually telling the truth and was actually crying at the time? Of course, he was. That's why I forgave him._ '

"For what?" John asks, distressed.

"Everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock."

"Still... Sorry."

"No. I am not going to accept your apology because there is absolutely nothing to apologise for."

"Alright."

"...Did you really shot Magnussen to keep Mary safe and therefore keeping _me_ safe and happy?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. He shrugs in reply.

"Why?" John asks, losing his voice.

"Because you're _John Watson._ "

John shakes his head, confused. "Sherlock, I-I don't-"

"And I owe everything to you. Always."

"You're the best, greatest, kindest, most considerate, emotional, caring person I have ever met. You are also the stupidest." John stands up and sits beside Sherlock. "You don't owe me anything, and you never will."

"No, I-"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

And John wraps his arms around Sherlock and hugs him tightly.

"Thank you," John whispers. 

"No, John. Thank you."


End file.
